Will it always be like this until I am dead, Every spring must I bear it all again With the first red haze of the budding maple boughs, And the first sweet-smelling rain? Oh I am like a rock in the rising river Where the flooded water breaks with a low call, Like a rock that knows the cry of the waters And cannot answer at all.
Return to the Sara Teasdale library , or . . . Read the next poem; Stars